


Oubliette

by soteriophobe



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Male Friendship, Panic Attack, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soteriophobe/pseuds/soteriophobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>'Oubliette' derives from the French word 'oublier', meaning ‘to forget’. The word 'oblivion' is also a derivative.</i><br/>Peter and Neal face the threat of oblivion and the danger in recollection, trapped thirty feet below the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oubliette

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on the Trapped Fic bash at LJ's whitecollarhc. This fic is set very early in season 1, sometime prior to “Free Fall”.

 

 

It was, without a doubt, the worst case Neal had ever been a part of in his short time at the FBI. It was the kind of case that made him re-think whether this consultant gig was better than prison.

  
A serial killer was on the loose, murdering college kids and placing the bodies into elaborate settings that mimicked some of the most famous – and most disturbing – paintings of all time. The first case was a young couple, killed and positioned in the Hudson University courtyard in homage to  _Death Killing The Lovers_  by Follower of Burgkmair. A 17-year-old English major had been drowned in a Central Park pond and adorned with flowers, in a picture-perfect recreation of Millais’  _Death of Ophelia_. A science major lost his life in a particularly grisly incarnation of Caravaggio’s  _Judith Beheading Holofernes_. And the most recent case? A 19-year-old drama student had her face carved up and rearranged to imitate Picasso’s  _Girl With Dark Hair_. More than one agent lost their lunch at that crime scene.  
  
A week after each crime, the killer sent a package to the FBI, care of the lead detective. It was a reproduction of each painting the killer had pastiched, with one change – the victim’s face was drawn in, replacing the original subject.  
  
The Violent Crimes Unit hadn’t even known what to make of the case, and so they had pulled in Neal and Peter to consult, give their input on the crime scenes, use Neal’s contacts to get a lead on which of the city’s art cravens was capable of such heinous things. Apparently, his and Peter’s reputation as super sleuths was growing. Given that cases like this were a consequence of that, Neal found himself wishing for obscurity – and he was pretty sure his handler felt the same. He had never seen Peter looking so worn, dark hollows under his eyes.  
  
They were both desperate to close this case, before the killer snapped and decided that his next “masterpiece” was going to be a real-life replication of _Guernica_  – and so they worked, and worked, and worked. They barely slept, spending many long evenings at the office, and a few at Peter’s dining table, Elizabeth trying to coax them into taking a break or eating something. This case was the first time Neal had seen Peter shooing his wife away from them, refusing to let her read the case file over his shoulder – he didn’t want her to see the crime scene photos.  
  
Finally, it seemed that they had caught a break – connected a well-known art restorer to the victims, to the timeline of the murders. It was this break that lead them to where they were at present – sitting in Peter’s car outside the suspect’s palatial home on East 68th Street, search warrant in hand, awaiting backup.  
  
Peter glanced at his watch, irritable, shaking his head. “Where the hell are they?”  
  
“Traffic, Peter. It’s rush hour. They’ll be here soon.” Neal tried to appear relaxed, sprawling back in the passenger seat, but he had to admit that he shared Peter’s anxiety. This guy was dangerous, in a way that your run-of-the-mill white-collar bad guy was not. He felt oddly exposed even just sitting across the road from the lair of a sadistic murderer, and craved the security of a SWAT team and roof-mounted snipers.  
  
After this, he would never complain about mortgage fraud cases again.  
  
He yawned, stretched, shifted restlessly in his seat.  
  
“Hey, Peter, do you think-“  
  
“Shh.”  
  
Glancing to Peter, Neal realized that the other man had tensed suddenly, frowning, staring through the windshield. Neal followed Peter’s bloodhound gaze and felt his stomach drop into his shoes.  
  
Their suspect – Cattigan – was strolling up the street toward them. And there was a young woman walking beside him.  
  
Neal swallowed, a wave of nausea rolling through him.  
  
“Oh, god. Peter, that’s-…”  
  
“…-his next victim? Yeah, probably.”  
  
They watched in dead silence as Cattigan reached his front door, unlocked it, and held it open for his guest. The girl entered the townhouse, followed by Cattigan, and the tomblike door swung solemnly closed behind them.  
  
“We  _can’t_  just sit here.” Neal glanced to his partner, finally daring to breathe again.  
  
Peter sighed, glanced at his watch again, and then closed his eyes – pulled his gun out of its holster. He climbed out of the driver’s side door, glancing back at Neal as he went.  
  
“Wait here, Caffrey.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s gonna happen,” Neal scoffed, opening his own door and following Peter out. It felt good to stand again.  
  
“ _Neal_ , I said to  _stay_ -…” Peter stared at Neal across the hood, his voice hushed and aggravated. The elder man apparently spent a moment weighing up whether it was even worth arguing with Neal, before letting out an exasperated sigh.  
  
Just as well. Neal would have followed him in, one way or another.  
  
“Just….stay  _behind_  me, okay? Try not to do anything stupid. You’re not armed.” Peter sighed, lifting his weapon. “C’mon.”  
  
***  
  
They were planning to sneak in through the fire escape, but they only made it as far as the back door before the girl started screaming.  
  
Peter didn’t hesitate – gun in hand, he raced to the back door and planted two powerful kicks against it, sent it flying inward. Neal followed him into the house, staying behind him as instructed. He was normally pretty brazen in these scenarios, but this time he was spooked. Cattigan was lethal. Going in without backup could be suicidal. But what choice did they have?  
  
The girl screamed again, her voice echoing through the lush interior of the mansion, coming from the second floor. With Neal in tow, Peter raced toward the sound, bounding silently up the grand staircase at the front of the house. Creeping gracefully on the balls of his feet, the agent slid down the hall, slunk to the edge of a doorway and peeked quickly around at the scene playing out in what appeared to be a sitting room. Neal pressed himself against the wall next to his partner, could hear Peter’s quick breaths as he waited for the right moment to strike.  
  
Cattigan was in there, advancing on his victim with a gun in his hand. She had fallen, or been hit – there was a gash at her temple, blood seeping down her cheek. She scrambled backward across the floor, looking up at Cattigan with frightened blue eyes. He smiled down at her, predatory.  
  
“ _FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPON!_ ” Peter bellowed suddenly, rounding the doorway and aiming his gun at Cattigan’s back. The girl let out a shriek at the sudden noise, and Cattigan turned calmly around and peered down the muzzle of Peter’s Sig Sauer. Neal stayed where he was, glancing around at the walls and rooms and hallways, trying to figure out a way to assist his partner and get the girl out.  
  
Cattigan smiled wolfishly at Peter, tilting his head to one side. His gun remained trained on the girl, and she looked frantically at Peter, whimpering.  
  
“A visitor. How nice. Welcome to my parlor.”  
  
…- _Said the spider to the fly_ , Neal added mentally, taking a breath and trying to shake off the cold dread that had settled over him. This was bad. He scanned the far end of the hallway, eyes finally coming to rest on a discreet hatch in the wall.  
  
A fuse box. Perfect.  
  
“Drop the gun, Cattigan. Let the girl go. We have the building surrounded.” Peter’s voice echoed behind Neal as he slunk quietly toward said fuse box – Peter was bluffing, of course, but only Neal would ever have been able to tell.  
  
Cattigan  _tsk_ ed, and Neal could imagine him shaking his head, his mannerisms that of a homicidal Mr Rogers.  
  
“Oh, dear, dear, dear, _dear_. That won’t do, that won’t do at  _all_. You see, Eleanor here…” Cattigan’s voice was soft, and there was a smile in his words. “…She’s going to be a  _star_. My greatest masterpiece to date. ”  
  
“You gonna cut her face up, too?” Peter’s voice shook with rage and disgust.  
  
Cattigan paused, and in his mind’s eye Neal could see his eyes lighting up, a delighted smile passing over his lips.  
  
“Why, Agent. You know my work.”  
  
Neal swallowed hard, finally reaching the fuse box and gently, silently pulling it open. Without hesitating, he flipped the main breaker.  
  
The mansion was plunged into complete darkness, heavy curtains blocking out the last threads of sunset. He could hear the girl ( _Eleanor_ ) gasp – otherwise, there was a sudden silence.  
  
“Cattigan?” Peter sounded wary, caught off-guard. There was no answer.  
  
Neal slipped back down the hallway, about to round into the sitting room, when he damn near fell over Eleanor, who was on her hands and knees and crawling into the hallway, taking the darkness as a chance to escape. Neal dropped to a crouch and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth as she drew breath to scream at his unexpected presence. He shook his head, making a “shh”-ing motion, and helped her to her feet. He placed his mouth close to her ear, whispering.  
  
“ _Run_. Back door.”  
  
She didn’t need to be told twice – she took off, stumbling down the stairs and out of sight. Neal turned and started toward where he could hear Peter breathing.  
  
He only got two paces before there was the sound of a soft, high-pitched shot in the darkness, and sudden, painful warmth flooding into his chest. He gasped softly, wondering for a moment if Peter had shot him thinking that he was Cattigan – but then he heard his partner call out, a note of panic in his voice.  
  
“Neal?!”  
  
Neal tried to respond, ask for help, anything – but it was like his throat had stopped working and all his bones had disappeared, and he could barely feel himself tumble to the floor before blackness washed over him like a wave.  
  
***  
  
When Neal came to, he was instantly assaulted by a dank, musty smell. His legs were cramping, and the ground underneath him was…hard, rough, cold. He made a face, groaning, trying to remember where he was and why his head hurt and why he wasn’t in his bed at June’s when it was obviously dark outside – and then, as his memory suddenly came back to him, his hand flew to his chest, feeling for the wound he knew must be there.  
  
No blood. No pain, either, beyond a thudding ache in one of his pecs. What the hell was going on?  
  
“I  _told_  you to stay in the car.”  
  
He jumped, Peter’s voice suddenly echoing around him, and his eyes snapped open. His partner was sitting on the opposite side of the space they were in – which was tiny, round, made of ancient bricks. Peter looked dirty and tired and pissed off, a graze on his temple, jacket off, sleeves rolled and clothes rumpled. Still, the way the man was perched forward, Neal wondered if Peter hadn’t been worried, watching him, waiting for him to wake up.  
  
Peter glared at him, continuing his diatribe, voice laden heavily with sarcasm.  
  
“But did you stay in the car? Oh,  _no_. Nobody puts Caffrey in a corner. You just  _had_  to come running into a murderer’s house unarmed. You just  _had_  to shut off all the lights and leave me blind. You couldn’t just stay out of sight and do as you were  _told_ , for once.”  
  
Neal ignored Peter’s ranting, sitting up and examining his chest, trying to find the bullet wound. His head and mouth felt cottony, it was hard to think. He looked up at Peter, expression begging explanation.  
  
“I was…shot. I know I was.”  
  
Peter stared at him, gaze hard and unreadable.  
  
“Yeah, you were. Lucky for you, Cattigan’s gun was full of  _tranq_  darts.”  
  
Peter let out a rough, trembling sigh, seemingly caught somewhere between irritation and relief. Neal exhaled in kind, nodding, everything suddenly falling into place. He swallowed.  
  
“Of course – Cattigan wouldn’t want to…mar his  _canvas_ , with a bullet.”  
  
He meant Eleanor, of course – Cattigan wouldn’t have shot her, not with a standard gun; he just wanted to sedate her, he had far more elaborate plans for her murder. Neal made a face, annoyed that he hadn't realized this straight away. Peter echoed this sentiment.  
  
“If I known that, I would have just shot the bastard,” Peter sighed. “But you went down like a damn rhino, I never could have gotten you out myself. So I surrendered my weapon. And our cell phones. And now we’re here.”  
  
Neal frowned, meeting his partner’s eyes. He could have argued, pointed out that he helped Eleanor escape, that flipping the breaker was the only thing he could think to do, that he couldn’t have let Peter go in alone in the first place; but he decided to just apologize. He didn’t want to fight, not now.  
  
“I’m sorry, Peter. I should have been more careful.”  
  
Peter looked at him for a moment, and then shrugged. His expression softened.  
  
“At least you’re not bleeding on me.”  
  
He smirked, and Neal smirked back – and then he sat up more fully, glancing around. He noticed for the first time just how tiny their surroundings were. He and Peter were sitting close enough to touch, each only just able to stretch their legs out, his tracking anklet blinking steadily alongside Peter’s left hip. The entire room couldn’t have been more than eight or nine feet across. It was shadowy and humid and smelled like sweat and earth. He frowned, feeling his throat grow tight.  
  
“So…where are we?”  
  
“I dunno – somewhere in the basement, “ Peter replied, frowning. “Cattigan threw us down here – literally. Hurt like hell. I’m shocked you didn’t break your damn neck, being out like you were. It’s some kind of hole in the floor – like a cistern, or…dungeon, or-“  
  
Neal could feel all of the blood draining from his face as he observed their surroundings more closely. They were sitting at the bottom of a long, brick-lined tunnel that – according to Peter – was dug into the ground. The only source of light came from a steel grate, covering a small hole about 30 feet above them. The walls were fairly smooth, and he couldn’t see any potential footholds, nothing that he could use to try and climb out. There were a number of ominous looking stains splashed against the brick of the walls – blood, and god only knows what else.  
  
Neal swallowed hard, trying to find his voice, cutting off his partner.  
  
“Peter, this is an  _oubliette_.”  
  
“…An  _oubliette_?” Peter blinked at him.  
  
Neal took a deep breath, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. He could feel the itching urge to pace, but realized with frustration that he could probably barely stand, let alone move around in here. He began to worry his hands, trying to keep his voice even and controlled.  
  
“They were a big thing in medieval castles, something you did to your worst enemy. They would just… _throw_  people down there, and it was like they didn’t exist anymore – they died or went crazy or both, totally alone. Even the name – it’s French for ‘ _forgotten place_.’ There’s only one way in or out.” He motioned upward, to the grate far above them.  
  
He was unable to keep a slight shake out of his voice, and he began to shiver. As a younger man he was fascinated, terrified by the idea of oubliettes – ever since he had toured castles in Europe, seen them in person. They were something close to the worst thing he could imagine, a fate worse than death. He had found solitary confinement, in prison, to be a frighteningly similar idea – he had only allowed himself to end up in there once, and he thought he would rather die than go back.  
  
Peter noticed his discomfort, frowned, but said nothing for the time being, instead allowing his eyes to wander to the grate above them.  
  
“…Medieval castles? What the hell is one doing in Manhattan?”  
  
“Knowing Cattigan? He probably dug it out himself.”  
  
“That sounds right,” Peter growled, “Sick son-of-a-bitch.”  
  
“Peter,” Neal said, as he looked across and caught the other man’s gaze, “…Cattigan isn’t going to kill us. He’s going to  _leave_ us here, to die.”  
  
Peter peered at him, brows furrowed, and Neal felt exposed, embarrassed. He didn’t want Peter to know how scared he was. He didn’t even want to admit it to himself.  
  
Peter paused, and then shrugged, saying: “Good.”  
  
And then, off Neal’s incredulous expression: “I mean…that buys us time. I don’t know what happened to Jones, but…you’ve got your anklet, the team knows what they’re doing. They’ll find us. We just got to wait it out.”  
  
The word dripped into Neal’s mind like Chinese water torture – wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait it out. Wait for how long? He wasn’t sure he could last another moment in here – he needed to be outside, to see the sky, to walk around, take gulps of fresh evening air.  
  
But they were trapped – so he just nodded at Peter, glancing up at the grate, dry tongue scraping against his lips and mouth as he spoke.  
  
“…Okay.”  
  
He could do this. He could. After all, how much longer could it be until their backup got there?

 

***

Three hours later, they were still waiting.  
  
Peter shifted uncomfortably in place and bounced his knee, glancing impatiently up at the grate, a complicated mix of anger and fear in his eyes.  
  
“What the  _hell_ is going on?” he grumbled to himself for the fifth time, as he glanced again at his watch.  
  
Neal, meanwhile, was sitting with his eyes closed, devoting every ounce of energy he had to staying calm. He couldn’t look at Peter, the man’s impatience was unsettling. Neal just needed to concentrate on not thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, on not dwelling on the past, on staying calm. He needed to fight back the manic fingers of hysteria that kept trying to curl around his mind, pull it apart.  
  
He succeeded in this for thirty minutes more, and then he lost the fight.  
  
Peter had finally gone quiet – deep in thought - but he startled as Neal suddenly climbed to his feet, movements clumsy in the tiny chamber. Neal hissed as his legs cramped and ached and tingled, gravity pushing blood down into his toes. He crossed to the wall, began running his hands over it. He could feel a cold droplet of sweat trickle down from his hairline.  
  
Peter stared at him. “Caffrey…?”  
  
“There could be a l-loose brick – or-, or-…a secret passage. What if there’s a secret passage behind the wall? There  _has_ to be a way out of here. We-, we-…we can find it. I can find it.” He could hear his own voice, fast and frantic and raised in pitch, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He had lost control.  
  
Peter looked up at him as he scrabbled his hands over the bricks, speaking slowly, brows knitting in concern.  
  
“I don’t think so, Neal. …C’mon, sit down.”  
  
“No!” Neal snapped, “…There’s something – there has to be  _something_. There has to be. I need to get  _out_ of here-…” He slammed the heel of his hand against one brick, another, another – trying to knock one loose, create a foothold, ignoring the painful jarring of his wrist. When this failed to achieve anything, he began to scratch away at the grout between bricks with his hands – if he could just…make a hole, or a series of holes, maybe he could climb out.  
  
A multitude of doomsday scenarios were running through his head. What if nobody was coming, what if nobody knew they were here? What if his anklet was too far underground to transmit a signal – it must have been, right? For all he and Peter knew, Jones and SWAT had been and gone. Cattigan wasn’t going to tell anyone that he threw them down here. He could picture the FBI launching a manhunt for them, scouring the city and dragging the river, when all the while they were rotting in a filthy pit.  
  
He was going to  _die_  down here – he and Peter both. Why didn’t he stay in the car? Why didn’t they both just stay in the goddamned car? What made them think they should go in without backup? Why did he keep getting himself into these situations?  
  
He was scratching at the bricks, clawing at the bricks, and he could distantly hear someone saying his name in an ever-more-frantic tone of voice – then, suddenly, Peter was standing beside him.  
  
“Neal! Neal,  _stop it_! Stop!”  
  
The elder man took his wrists firmly, pulled him away from the wall, and when Neal looked down at his hands he was shocked to see blood. His fingernails were ragged and half torn away, fingertips shredded and dripping red onto the dusty floor.  
  
Peter looked down at his CI’s hands and then back up, stared into his face, kept his grip on Neal’s wrists. His crabbiness of the past hours had dropped away, and he looked shaken, his brown eyes wide. He stared down again at Neal’s injured hands, as though he was trying to read them.  
  
“ _Jesus_ , Neal,” Peter breathed, finally letting go of Neal’s wrists and pulling out his handkerchief. Before he could tend to the wounds, however, all of the strength went out of Neal’s knees and he slipped from Peter’s grasp, crashing to the ground.  
  
Neal felt like a deer in the headlights – frozen in fear, unable to get away, body and mind screaming at him that he was mere moments from inevitable death. Nothing felt real – not Peter’s voice, nor the blood on his hands, nor the pain as his knees hit the ground hard and he slumped forward, doubling over.  
  
Face in the dirt, he could hear a strange whooping sound – a wailing of breath, like someone choking or sobbing or both. It took him a moment to realize that the sound was coming from him.  
  
And then Peter’s hands were on his shoulders, sitting him up and guiding him gently back to lean against the wall. The physical contact broke through the haze of dissociation, and unwelcome reality came rushing back.  
  
Neal could not breathe – he could only suck air in, he couldn’t push it out, and his lungs jerked and writhed in his chest. His heart – god, his  _heart_ , it felt like it was going to explode, it was beating so fast. Every thud was like a knife wound, a breaking of ribs.  
Was this a heart attack? Was he dying? This had to be what dying felt like.  
  
Peter’s face floated in front of him, then his body appeared, and then the two parts linked to form a person. He was kneeling with a hand on each of Neal’s shoulders, sturdy and sage, a fixed point in whirling chaos. The agent looked vaguely close to panic himself, but when he spoke his voice was firm and reassuringly even.  
  
“Neal, what’s happening? You can’t breathe?”  
  
He whooped helplessly at Peter, eyes wide, heart and lungs still spasming violently – but managed to nod, even as his bloodied hands clawed at Peter’s sleeves in a silent plea for help.  
  
“Okay. ...Okay,” Peter muttered to himself, eyes scanning up and down over Neal’s body, before gently freeing his arms from the conman’s grasp. He pressed two fingers to Neal’s throat, measured his pulse. Apparently this didn’t satisfy Peter, who – after he held up a hand to warn him of the imminent contact – leaned down and pressed his ear to Neal’s chest, listening intently.  
  
After a moment, Peter straightened and eased a hand over Neal’s jaw, coaxing his mouth open, murmuring to Neal that it was okay, it was okay, he just had to see. He squinted at Neal’s tonsils, frowning to himself.  
  
Neal was barely aware of his handler’s ministrations – black spots were swimming in front of his eyes, the pain in his chest and his utter desperation suddenly strangely unaffecting. It took him a moment to realize that Peter was saying his name.  
  
He lifted his head and met the other pair of eyes in the room, slamming back to earth, the tide of his hysteria going out again. Peter looked into his face, expression firm and authoritative but endlessly tender – when he spoke, his voice was soft in a way that Neal had never heard before.  
  
“Neal, I think you’re having a panic attack. You’re going to be alright, it’ll pass. We just need to slow your breathing down.”  
  
Peter leaned in, loosening Neal’s tie and unbuttoning his collar, continuing to speak as he did so.  
  
“We’ll do it together. In nice and deep through your nose, then real slow out your mouth. Okay? Copy me.”  
  
Peter began to breathe as described, pulling in air and slowly exhaling, his breath warm and slightly sour. Neal, still gasping and struggling, tried desperately to emulate the process – but every breath he pulled in seemed to lead to violent choking, the effort making his head spin, the black spots returning. After five minutes of this, he could feel tempting oblivion tugging at the edges of his consciousness. His vision started to dim.  
  
He began to give in, slide away, but was pulled back by Peter’s voice.  
  
“Hey, Neal! Stay with me. Stay with me.” Peter paused, eyes roaming over the younger man’s face, before murmuring worriedly: “Christ, you’re turning blue, Neal – you  _gotta_  try and breathe, okay?”  
  
After a moment of contemplation, Peter took one of Neal’s hands – gently, gently, careful not to aggravate the wounds – and pressed it to his chest, put his own hand over it and held it there.  
  
“C’mon, kid. Like this.”  
  
Peter breathed deeply and deliberately once more. Neal could feel the man’s chest rising and falling, the thrumming of his strong heart, the pressure and warmth of his broad hand over Neal’s smaller one. It was grounding in a way that nothing had been so far, and Neal felt something within him uncoil. He was still whooping, but he closed his eyes and concentrated, and began to cough out a breath for each gulp of air he sucked in. There was an instant sense of overwhelming relief, as his lungs finally deflated.  
  
“ _There_  we go – attaboy, Caffrey. You’re doin’ good.” Peter’s voice finally relaxed somewhat, warmed, softened. He ducked his head, caught Neal’s still frantic, roving eyes.  
  
“Hey – hey. Neal, look here. Look at me.” Peter gave Neal a tired, friendly smile.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here. It’s you and me, huh? We’re in here together. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.”  
  
Neal nodded mutely, swallowed, as he struggled to regulate his breaths, to calm himself. Any other time he might have found such a display of sentimentality awkward or unnerving, humiliating - but in that moment, he clung to Peter’s words, repeated them over and over in his mind. Peter was with him, Peter wouldn’t leave him. Neal wasn’t going to die alone – not that day, anyway.  
  
The two men sat like that for what felt like hours – breathing together, slowing things down; Peter murmuring soft words of encouragement; Neal beating down his fear, remembering how to be still.  
  
***  
  
After the panic faded, Peter wrapped his discarded jacket around Neal’s shoulders and sat back against the opposite wall, watching him warily. Neal was shaking, drained, still pushing down residual anxiety, his breaths quick-but-complete. Neither of them said anything for a very long time.  
  
Peter was the first to break the silence, in the end. He didn’t look at Neal as he spoke, instead addressing the wall to his right.  
  
“You never told me you were claustrophobic.”  
  
Neal shrugged. “You never asked.”  
  
Peter rolled his eyes, though the action was good-natured. A few more long, silent moments passed, before he spoke again.  
  
“I’ve never seen you lose it, before. Not ever. I wasn’t sure you could.” He paused, peering at Neal. Neal’s cheeks coloured slightly, and he shrugged again – Peter apparently decided not to push it, and went on.  
  
“Was it prison, that made you that way? Claustrophobic, I mean.”  
  
Neal shook his head, and allowed a long moment to pass before he replied. His voice was rough, throat raw from panic and dehydration.  
  
“When I was 10, I broke into my neighbor’s house. They were rich. They had this closet in their basement that was full of…vases, paintings, antiquities. Anything they didn’t feel like putting on show, downstairs. The fence value of some of that stuff – I mean…it would have been worth a couple of million, at least.”  
  
Neal paused, cleared his throat, glanced at Peter - his face was disapproving, but intrigued. Neal continued.  
  
“Anyway – I was in that closet, and somehow the door shut and locked behind me. I was already picking locks by then, but…this was a Clarke 957, it had an electronic release; there was no way. I was stuck.” Neal paused, licked his lips, felt his addled lungs spasm at the memory.  
  
“The Jensens were out of town – they didn’t come home for two days. By the time they found me…” Neal trailed off, shook his head. He didn’t want to remember.  
  
He risked another glance at Peter. The man’s eyes were narrowed in horror and something like sympathy as he absorbed the tale, allowed his imagination to fill in the blanks. Peter frowned, opened his mouth to say something – and then thought better of it, fell silent. Neal looked down at his ruined hands.  
  
“…You get busted? Did they book you?” Peter said, when he finally spoke.  
  
Neal couldn’t help but let out a laugh – because that was just so typically Peter Burke, a man obsessed with catching crooks. He shrugged.  
  
“Slap on the wrist. They figured I’d learned my lesson.”  
  
He laughed a second time, a little more bitter, observing the irony. That his first “heist” went so spectacularly wrong had never deterred him – he had simply resolved to make fewer mistakes the next time, to learn to manipulate electronic locks; and to avoid closets, of course. For years after, he would even unscrew the doors from his closets at home, irrationally frightened of somehow being trapped again.  
  
Peter studied him for a long moment, before sighing.  
  
“I wish I’d been there.”  
  
Neal looked up at him, blinked, and was suddenly assaulted by the mental image of an alternate fate. Peter, kicking in the closet door, or shooting out the lock and prying it open. Crouching down in front of a hungry, terrified 10-year-old and telling him that it was okay now, they were getting out of there, he was a policeman and it was okay to trust him. Driving the boy home and yelling at his neglectful mother for not even noticing that her son was missing, she was so drunk. It was a nice thought.  
  
He almost smiled at Peter, raising a brow.  
  
“…Really?”  
  
“Yeah – I wouldn’t have let you get away with B&E like that. I’d have thrown you in juvie, scared you straight.” Peter looked up at him, plaintive. “And you’d be some kind of artist, now, or something, instead of a pain in my ass.”  
  
…Oh. Neal tried not to feel crestfallen, slipped sarcasm on like a mask.  
  
“That’s sweet, Peter. You should write greeting cards.”  
  
Peter said nothing, but smirked back at Neal in such an affectionate way that Neal suddenly felt less disappointed. He realized, sitting in that filthy hole with jangled nerves and bloody hands, that this was how Peter cared for people – he gave them what they needed, instead of what they asked for. He protected them from themselves. Peter’s burning desire to go back in time and throw Neal in kiddie prison was…a compliment, probably the closest thing Neal would ever get to hugs and epithets and validation from the man. It was Peter’s way of saying:  _I wish things had been better for you, I wish I could have spared you future pain._  
  
The realization was comforting, made him feel warm and soothed the ambient tension still buzzing around him. He smiled quietly to himself.  
  
There was another long silence, however, and his relief was fleeting – every five minutes his brain reminded him of how narrow the room was, how out-of-reach the exit. Struggling to maintain his control, he looked to Peter for distraction.  
  
“You’re good with anxiety attacks. How’d that happen?”  
  
Peter looked up at him, as though he was surprised to hear Neal speak.  
  
“I worked in organized crime for about six months, a long time ago. Before I met El, even. Got to see a lot of freaked out victims and witnesses. You just…learn.” Peter shrugs.  
  
Neal nodded, shifting his weight.  
  
“Ah. …Well, uh…thanks. For-…you know. I’m really grateful that-…”  
  
“Don’t mention it.” Peter said, cutting him off. He punctuated his words with a single nod.  
  
Uncomfortable and eager to change the subject, Neal paused, and then smirked at his partner.  
  
“So, organized crime, huh? …Does that mean you worked under  _Ruiz_?”  
  
Peter chuckled at the disgust in Neal’s voice, shook his head.  
  
“Nah, he wasn’t in charge back then – he was green, like me. …He was still a jerk, though. Walked around like he owned the place.”  
  
Neal grinned. “Yeah, I don’t think that improves over time.”  
  
Peter returned the grin, a nostalgic glint in his eye, and Neal had the impression that he was about to tell him a story – when suddenly there was movement above them, a familiar voice.  
  
“Peter? …Caffrey? Anyone in here?”  
  
Neal’s heart began to pound again, and Peter’s gaze shot skyward.  
  
“Jones! Down here! The grate, in the floor!” he bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth for amplification.  
  
A moment later, Jones’ face appeared behind the iron bars, and Neal could have wept with relief. Peter, however, got to his feet and glowered at the agent above him. Somehow his authority was still unmistakable, even though he was 30 feet below the man he was yelling at.  
  
“Where the  _hell_  have you been?! What happened to backup being ten minutes out?!”  
  
Jones didn’t flinch, apparently accustomed to Peter’s crankiness, or perhaps empathizing with how tense and exhausted his boss suddenly seemed.  
  
“We couldn’t find you. We got Cattigan, but he was playing with us – said he had you and Caffrey, but wanted a deal before he gave you back. We couldn’t track the anklet, ‘cause the signal was too weak – had to get a consult with cybercrimes, they gave us some super-GPS prototype thing.”  
  
Neal felt a nauseous chill pass through him, that so many of his “irrational” fears of an hour ago were truer than he realized – about Cattigan, the tracker.  
  
It didn’t matter – it didn’t matter, now. He took a deep breath.  
  
Peter was still looking up at the grate, somewhat sheepish in the face of Jones’ very reasonable explanation. He gestured, gruff.  
  
“…Oh. Well…find us a ladder or something, huh?”  
  
“Roger that.”  
  
Peter stared up as Jones’ face disappeared again, and after a moment of thought he called out, voice softening slightly.  
  
“Thanks, Jones.”  
  
Neal tilted his head, looking at Peter as though he was really seeing the man for the first time. All of those years that Peter was hunting him down, and even recently with the work-release, Neal had taken for granted that he knew who Peter was - a grouchy, hard-nosed FBI agent with a razor-sharp brain and wit, and a strong moral compass. A man who was decent, but ultimately a control freak, ultimately willing to shoot or be shot, ultimately  _un_ willing to see the world in anything but black and white.  
  
But tonight he had seen the secret side of Peter, the one that the agent apparently liked to hide beneath a façade of cantankerous rigidity. The one that Peter already seemed to be stuffing back down. A side that was paternal, gentle, and kind; that recognised shades of grey; that lead him to care more deeply for people than he would ever confess; that was proud of his team and protected them like family; and that was, Neal imagined, a huge weakness - something that made the agent far too vulnerable.  
  
He couldn’t blame Peter for hiding that away – and his secret was safe with Neal. But it made the conman wonder if he had ever really known his handler at all.  
  
Peter noticed his lingering gaze, and twitched uneasily, breaking Neal out of his reverie. “What?”  
  
“Nothing,” Neal shrugged, “Just glad to be getting out of here.”  
  
“You and me both.”  
  
Peter sighed, laid a hand against one of the walls, took a last look around their prison, which could have so easily been their tomb.  
  
“... _Forgotten place_ , huh?”  
  
“ _Oubliette._  That’s what it means.”  
  
Peter paused for a long moment, and then sighed.  
  
“Good. I don’t want to remember.”  
  
Neal was not entirely sure what Peter meant, but it didn’t matter. Neal had a long enough memory for the both of them.  
  
The two men stood in the darkness of their prison, looking up toward the light, waiting to be saved.

  
_-Fin-_


End file.
